“Fellows! I’ll tell you. I meant to keep it a secret, but I guess you’re entitled to know. What Lon referred to as the beginning of the trouble was—well, it was the—er—er—the accident to Major Bates. I shot at what I thought was a deer in Marlow woods, and I hit the Major!”
“Whew!”
“You did that, Sam!”
“Shot the Major!”
“Jupiter crickets, but I wouldn’t have been in your shoes for a farm!”
So the club voiced its astonishment. Sam waited for the hubbub to subside. Then said he:
“I intended to say nothing to anybody, but when Groche was arrested—why, there was only one square thing to do. The old Major was bully; so was my father. Groche was turned loose, and I supposed that was the end of the story. But then things began to happen—you know well enough what they were, and how we explained ’em.”
Two or three nodded; as many more stole repentant glances at Tom Orkney.
“We made a bad mistake,” Sam went on. “I won’t dwell on all the mistake led to; but I will say that it seems to me a clear case of one blunder brought about by another. If I hadn’t shot the Major, there wouldn’t have been any raids on our barn—and we’re certain Groche was the raider: so far Lon’s theory is backed by facts. I blundered by believing somebody else did the tricks, and that led to the third blunder in jumping to the conclusion that the somebody smashed the club window that night. Wait a minute, though!” He turned to Orkney. “You’re following this, aren’t you? You get the combination all right?”
“Yes,” said Orkney simply.